


Hit Me With Your Best Shot

by soufflegirl91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Bond is a sad potato who needs a new flat, But with serious bits, Friendship with Feelings, Gen, Humor, No characters were harmed in the making of this fic, Post-Skyfall, couldn't pick a genre for this one if I tried, slightly cracky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28959597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soufflegirl91/pseuds/soufflegirl91
Summary: “Are you sure you want to do this, Bond?”Bond’s aim never wavered.“Don’t tempt me, Q.”Only one of them could walk out of this room. It was now or never. But it would have been so much easier if Q had justnot turned around.
Relationships: James Bond & Q
Comments: 22
Kudos: 76
Collections: 2020-2021 00Q Reverse Big Bang





	Hit Me With Your Best Shot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Archangell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangell/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Don't Tempt Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970775) by [Archangell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangell/pseuds/Archangell). 



> Written for the 2020-2021 00Q Reverse Big Bang. Art prompt is embedded in the story at the relevant point. I hope you'll all go and give Will some love for it. It was a really fun prompt to write for, and I hope you enjoy what I did with it :D 
> 
> As with everything I write, this fic would not be half as polished without Christine's beta skills. Her help with brainstorming, poking and prodding me to actually flesh things out makes me a better writer.

James Bond crept silently down the hallway, the overhead light flickering weakly in the darkness. 

How had it come to this?

Creeping around a dimly lit building, empty save for his one remaining foe. The others were gone, now. It had taken the agents by surprise; they had thought this would be a milk run. Instead, they had been picked off, one by one.

Now only Bond was still standing. 

Only Bond could make the difference between the mission’s success or failure. Between noble sacrifice and pointless destruction. 

Daylight shone through the open doorway that loomed ahead.

For better or worse, it would all be over soon. Whether or not it would all be for _nothing_ remained to be seen. Bond's future - his very _life_ \- depended on the next few seconds.

Gun raised, he inched forward. As he neared the open door, he could just make out an unruly mop of dark hair, turned away from him. 

_Good._

It would be so much easier if his mark remained unaware of his presence until it was too late. If only so that Bond wouldn’t have to see the look in his eyes as he pulled the trigger.

Would it be relief? Or disappointment? It was better not to find out.

Bond took aim. 

His mark turned, his own gun raised and pointing back at Bond.

His mark.

_Q._

“Are you sure you want to do this, Bond?” 

Bond’s aim never wavered. 

“Don’t tempt me, Q.” 

Only one of them could walk out of this room. It was now or never. But it would have been so much easier if Q had just _not turned around._

Q caught his hesitation and smirked, levelling his aim at Bond’s head. 

“Oh, come on. Like _you’d_ shoot me.”

Was this how it was going to go down?

“Bastard.”

Sniping at each other until the very end. 

Bond pulled the trigger.

Q ducked.

He struck the wall where Q’s chest had been. 

Q raised an eyebrow, his gun still raised.

“Is it my go now?”

-

_Two weeks earlier:_

Q trudged up the stairs to his flat, dead on his feet. He hadn’t been home in almost 48 hours, between getting 007 out of a tight spot in Baku and then jumping straight in to keep 004 alive and out of the hands of the Russians in Kiev. He’d been so busy that he hadn’t even been able to check in Bond’s equipment, having to pass that off to Stephens. 

It always made him edgy, not being able to see for himself that Bond - that _all_ of his double-ohs - were home safe and sound. Q resigned himself to a surreptitious CCTV trail once he’d had some dinner. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep easily until he knew what shape Bond was in.

As soon as he reached the door, he knew that something was out of place. Q never left the lights on. But there was light shining through the crack under the door. 

He reached into his satchel and pulled out his gun. With his other hand, he turned the key in the lock. He eased the door open, gun at the ready. 

Nothing seemed amiss in the hallway. 

Q cautiously moved towards the light shining from his living room. He debated reaching into his pocket for his phone. Sure he could text for back-up one-handed, but decided to wait. If there were hostiles in his flat, he couldn’t afford to split his concentration even for just a few seconds. 

A few steps further, and the figure on his sofa came into view. 

“Bond? Why the fuck are you asleep on my sofa? _Again_.”

Q hastily flicked the safety back on his gun, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud. 

Bond, the _bastard,_ didn’t even have the decency to jump. 

“You’re late.” He blinked sluggishly, even if Q hadn’t startled him, he had clearly only just woken up. The shadows under his eyes told Q his visitor hadn’t been getting much rest, lately. “I thought you’d be home by 7. You’ll have to reheat the pasta.”

Q sighed as he holstered his weapon. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to cook. And he didn’t need to worry about losing his evening to CCTV logs. But this was beginning to get out of hand. It was the seventh time in three months that he’d come home to find James Bond loitering in his flat. If he wasn’t asleep on the sofa, he was in the kitchen cooking something obnoxiously delicious. 

And it wasn’t that Q _objected_ to having a deadly, attractive assassin in his flat, not least one who brought Q dinner _and made breakfast_ , but he was really starting to worry about just _what_ Bond got up to when he wasn’t on a mission. He would turn up at Q’s flat with a duffel (and on one memorable occasion, a suit bag), stay for a night or two, then disappear.

Oh, he’d still come into the office to do his paperwork and training. He even mentored the odd junior agent when someone strong-armed him into it, but Q had no idea where he went when he _wasn’t_ in the office. He never tripped any of the flags Q had set up in case his agents ever got into trouble, and Q never let himself invade his agents’ privacy any more than that. But he was starting to worry that Bond was just sofa-hopping between missions. Why else would he come to Q’s when he could just go home?

Clearly, he was going to have to do some research. 

\- 

“-On the whole, I think it’s been a productive three months. Mission success is up, agent downtime due to injury is at a record low. Equipment replacement is still high, but we’re working on it. At least they’re filling out the feedback forms now, so we know what to tweak when we have to start from scratch.” 

“So you’d say things are going well, then?”

Q was sitting in one of the comfy chairs in M’s office, accompanied by Bill and Eve. It was Friday afternoon, a fact attested to by the fact that the men had all loosened their ties and Eve’s killer heels (literally - Q had made a few adjustments) were discarded on the floor. All the formalities of their quarterly mission review were pretty much done with, there was just one remaining sticking point.

“ _Generally,_ yes. Only…” Q trailed off. 

“Yes?” 

“Well, frankly, Sir, we’re all knackered.” He hadn’t intended to bring it up, but now that he’d opened his mouth, the words came tumbling out. “Since the whole Silva debacle, we’ve been running missions back-to-back, and that’s _fine_ , God knows it needed doing. It’s just… everyone’s running on fumes. The agents think anyone saying hello in the office is about to ship them off to bloody Nicaragua or somewhere, and every time _they_ come into Q branch, one of my staff _drops_ something. We’re lucky that bomb prototype on Tuesday wasn’t armed, or we’d all be buggered. Well. Anyone who _survived_ would be buggered.” 

“So you’re saying tensions are running high?” M leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his desk. The same position he usually adopted when one of the double-ohs had done something news-worthy and they needed to come up with a convincing cover story. 

Q sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was getting too long. He had been meaning to get it cut, but between all of the missions lately, and Bond turning up in his flat every other bloody week, he had never quite got around to making an appointment. 

“I’m saying we could all do with the chance to let off some steam, Sir. Last week, 006 asked Sajid if he even knew how to shoot the guns _he_ designed, and I thought Sajid was going to shoot him in the face. Everyone in my department has excellent range scores, but for some reason the double-ohs insist on acting like they don’t know which end of the gun is the barrel. I spotted Brian testing out his new laser sight on the back of 003’s _head_.” 

“Ah. Yes, that does pose a problem.”

“The gym staff _did_ say that the double-ohs have been going through punching bags at a faster rate than usual,” interjected Tanner. “They’ve requested a budget increase to order more.” 

“The target range staff have requested more practice rounds, too” Eve chipped in. “They’ve had to start turning agents away once they’ve reached their required practice time in case we run out before the next shipment’s due.” 

“That’s not just the agents,” Q conceded. “My staff have been putting in more target practice time lately, too. Though that might have more to do with the persistent jibes than real frustration.” 

“And the last thing we need is to get Accounting stressed on top of everyone else,” M surmised.

“Exactly.” 

“Bugger.”

“Quite. The mission schedule is slowing down a lot, now, but...” 

“...but we need to find a way to let everyone vent their frustrations before things end up going _very bad_ during a mission," Tanner finished for him. 

“Actually,” said Moneypenny, with a suspiciously bright grin, “I think I might have an idea…”

-

“Paintball?!”

James’s attention was pulled away from the After Action Report he had been editing. He’d thought he was finally done with the bloody Baku mission, but Management kept sending it back to him with “just one more query” - James was sure it must be Eve’s doing. She had been suspiciously chipper the last time he’d been in to see M. 

“They want to make us go _paintballing?_ Have they gone mad?!” 

James looked over to see Alec Trevelyan staring slack-jawed at his computer screen, his face a mask of horror.

“What’s so bad about paintball? I used to be part of a team in uni. We were the regional champions.” This from Elsa Johnson, at her desk in the corner. The new 002 was still largely an unknown quantity to James, having been promoted during his “hiatus” in Turkey. He hadn’t quite decided whether he found her cheerful enthusiasm charming or annoying. It’d probably wear off soon enough, anyhow. 

“It’s not the _what_ ,” Alec stated ominously, “it’s the _who_. Have you checked your emails recently?”

“Not since lunch,” replied Johnson. “Why?” 

“There’s an email from M.”

“M?” James was confused. “Why would _M_ want to make us play paintball?” 

He had forgotten to even _open_ Outlook today. He forgot most days. Someone usually called him if he was late for a meeting he’d not read about. It saved the effort of remembering. He searched for the blue icon and double-clicked. 

“Just read it,” Alec grumbled. “You won’t believe me, otherwise.”

While waiting for the programme to load, James tried to imagine what could have Alec so concerned. His friend was hardly the fretting type - just last night, James had seen Alec continue chopping onions while his saucepan was _on fire._ Why would the prospect of a game of paintball make him react like this? 

He clicked on the email. 

And understood. 

_From: M_

_To: DL-Q Branch (All); DL-Double-Oh Division (All)_

_Subject: In recognition of all your hard work this quarter_

_Good afternoon,_

_Firstly, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your hard work this quarter. Since taking the helm in February, I have been consistently impressed by your efforts. I’m very proud to report that mission success is at a record high, and I am confident that we will continue to see an improved rate of equipment return going forward, building on the excellent progress made to date._

_As a small token of recognition for a successful three months, we have arranged a light-hearted paintball match between Q Branch and the double-oh division. All agents on home soil and office-based staff regularly scheduled to work that day will be expected to participate._

_While our budget won’t stretch to a financial prize for the winning team, I can confirm that there will be a trophy. Should the two teams wish to make any informal wagers, these must not impact our vital duties in any way._

_The match will take place on Friday, 19th June, starting at 1000 hrs. We have booked out MI6’s training facility at Balcombe Hall from Thursday to Saturday. Transport can be charged back against the training budget._

_Please do not provide your own weaponry. Q will equip everyone on the day._

_Best of luck to both teams. May the best team win._

_Kind regards,_

_M_

Oh, no.

This was not good.

This was not good at all.

“Against _Q Branch?!_ Are they _insane?_ ” Johnson had read the email too, it seemed.

“Apparently,” said Alec, morosely. 

“Is this even _legal_? We’re trained assassins! They-”

“-design the weapons we use to assassinate people, plan all the fine details to facilitate it and help us get away with it,” Alec finished succinctly. 

“...Oh.” 

“Yup.” Alec was still staring at his screen as if it had done something to personally offend him. 

“So we’re screwed, then.”

“Yup.”

James wondered if this new effort to get Q branch and agents to blow off steam together was Q’s doing. Ever since James had taken to including Q in his sofa-hopping rotation, Q had been pestering him to make “meaningful connections” at home and in the office. James had thought he meant to get a girlfriend, but apparently it also stretched to colleagues. 

He couldn’t decide if that was better or worse. James didn’t _want_ a girlfriend. What he _wanted_ was something quite different. But that was impossible, so it wasn’t worth thinking about. Q would never- 

On the other hand, James wasn’t sure that _Q_ would have been the one to come up with the idea of letting deadly people loose with paintball guns. He had told James about Brian’s experiments with laser sights. Letting him go after 003 hardly seemed a brilliant plan. No, _that_ part of the plan seemed far more like Eve’s idea. She had a truly wicked sense of humour. 

“James?” Alec’s voice interrupted his thoughts at just the right moment.

“Hmm?” 

“It says Q’s making the weapons. Do we trust him not to sabotage them? You’re the one who knows him best”

And that was the truth, wasn’t it? Q was a pleasant, if tough, Quartermaster to all of his agents equally, but James was the only one who saw anything of him outside of missions. His penchant for sleeping on Q’s sofa practically every week had given him the chance to see Q in a very different light. 

He had seen how Q was when he came off a 24-hour hacking spree. Tired, but too wired and screen-dazed to sleep yet. James plied him with peppermint tea, something carb-heavy and conversation until his eyelids started drooping, then bundled him off to bed.

He had seen how Q was when something had gone unexpectedly well. Chatty, practically vibrating in his seat and exhibiting the most _atrocious_ sense of humour. He’d practically inhaled his chow mein, and James had even heard him singing in the shower. He was terribly off-key. 

He had seen how Q was when a mission went bad. Radiating anger and self-loathing, not speaking a word. He hadn’t even touched his cup of tea before locking himself in his bedroom, after the old 008 had been killed.

“Q would never do anything to intentionally hinder his agents,” he stated emphatically. “Not even for a game.” 

“If you say so.” Alec leaned back in his chair, resting his well-worn boots on the desk. “So, Q’s making the weapons, Q branch has access to the blueprints of all MI6-owned sites… what advantage do _we_ have, again?” 

“Balcombe’s an old building,” mused Johnson, who had been there the most recently of the three. “Knowing the blueprints inside out wouldn’t give them that much of an advantage. Aside from the wifi, there’s nothing wireless in the bloody place.”

Something else in the email jumped out at James.

“Says here they’ve booked it out from the day before,” he said.

“Yes, and?” Alec groused. “Probably want to put up some bloody tarpaulins or something. Paintball’s messy.” 

“Well, what do you say we wait until they’ve done that and then make a few preparations of our own…”

-

Q tore off a chunk of naan and dunked it in the delicious vegetable curry Bond had cooked (from scratch! In _Q’s_ barely-used kitchen!), wondering if what he was about to do was a good idea. 

It had been a pleasant evening - Bond’s mission had gone relatively smoothly, he’d arrived home on schedule and they’d even travelled back to Q’s flat together for once. Q hadn’t been sure if acknowledging the elephant on the sofa would send Bond running, but it was pissing rain out, and frankly he couldn’t be bothered to fight with the two 10-minute walks either side of the tube station when Bond had a perfectly good car. Sure enough, when he’d pulled into Q’s street, Bond had made straight for Q’s unused parking space and joined him on the doorstep, duffel bag over his shoulder. 

It was… nice. 

Did he really want to ruin it? But he’d had a rather enlightening conversation with Eve, this morning. And his casual fishing (strictly gossip and public record information, Q would never invade Bond’s privacy like that) had yielded some interesting results.

“What’s got you so twisted up?” Bond’s words cut through Q’s brain with a jolt.

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know what you were thinking about, but it clearly wasn’t the curry. I think that naan soaked up as much sauce as it could about 2 minutes ago.” 

Q looked down. The now rather soggy excuse for a chunk of bread was barely holding itself together. He hurriedly lifted it towards his mouth, hoping it hadn’t gone too mushy. Before it could reach his lips, a chunk detached itself and landed on his plate with a sad _plop_.

Damn.

“So? What is it?”

Q sighed and dropped his soggy naan. It would be easier to eat it with a fork, anyway. He steeled himself to ask the question, forcing himself to keep eye contact. 

“How long have you been homeless?”

It was like watching shutters come down. Bond’s icy blue eyes went from teasing interest to frigid indifference. 

“I don’t know what you mean. I hardly spend my nights on the street, Q. You know that.”

Q forgot, sometimes, just how good the double-ohs were at putting up a front. 

“You know exactly what I mean, don’t play semantics. How long have you been hopping from one sofa to the next?”

“Actually, Eve has a rather serviceable guest bedroom,” Bond said with a smirk. It was anything but genuine humour.

“But Eve _doesn’t_ have a flatmate. Especially not one called James Bond. Your file says you used to live in Chelsea. What happened?”

“I died." 

_Ah._ There it was, then. 

"And nobody bothered to wait for my body to turn up before selling off all my worldly possessions.”

“I thought M dealt with the reinstatement of your assets, after… after you came back from Turkey.” 

“Oh, she gave me back my bank accounts,” Bond laughed coldly, “even managed to give me back all of my things that hadn’t been sold off. Apparently, MI6 has a storage unit full of dead agents’ things.”

Q winced. He was the one responsible for the contents of that storage unit. It was up to him how long things were kept, and how to dispose of them. But he’d come into the job while Bond was “dead” and things had been so busy that first few weeks that he hadn’t even known about it until after M had dealt with Bond’s return. 

He hadn’t even known about it until he was adding _M’_ s things to the registry. 

The old M.

The one who had apparently sold Bond’s life out from under him. 

“It’s a bit harder to return a flat that someone else lives in now.”

“Oh.”

“Quite.”

Q stared down at his plate, stained with the remnants of curry and a soggy naan. That explained how Bond had found himself homeless, but not…

“Did she not transfer you the proceeds of the sale? Could you not buy a new flat? Or there’s always renting-”

“Only for the same thing to happen again in a year or two? If I even live that long. What’s the point of giving someone else more paperwork to deal with.”

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it. Bond obviously didn’t see himself settling down to retire anytime soon. Didn’t see himself _living_ to retirement. 

Something in Q’s gut twisted painfully at the idea. 

“Bond, I promise to do everything in my power to make sure you keep coming home. But you need a _home_ to come home to.”

“I know you will.” Bond smiled, but it was a bleak smile. The kind of smile you gave to someone when you were telling them the gaping hole in their abdomen was just a scratch. “But I’ve been managing just fine, without. Between you, Alec, Eve and Tanner, there’s always a free place to sleep.”

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Q.

“Wait… if you’ve been sofa hopping since January, where do you keep your things? You certainly don’t seem to be short on clothes.” Indeed, Bond was wearing a different outfit every time Q saw him. _Q_ didn’t even have that many clothes, and he had somewhere to put them! 

“I keep a few suits and things at work. The rest is in a storage unit. M quite inspired me with that one, actually. It’s much cheaper than rent.” Q rolled his eyes at Bond’s thin humour. “I do my washing at Alec’s, and swap my selection of clothes out every week or so. It works.” 

“Well, it’s hardly ideal, is it?”

“Q, I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it. I’m hardly ever in the country for longer than a week at a time as it is!”

“Everyone needs a home, Bond. Even you. I’d say you could move in here, but I don’t exactly have a spare room.”

_What?_

Where the hell had that come from?

Q didn’t want _Bond_ moving in with him! Having him in Q’s space once a week, was bad enough. Besides, even if he was a bloody _fantastic_ cook, Q could do without bumping into Bond wrapped in a towel and dripping wet from a shower every morning. 

His sanity would never take the strain.

“Really, Q, it’s _fine._ ”

“But where will you live when you retire?”

Bond arched an eyebrow like Q was a small child asking a particularly stupid question. 

“I’ll worry about that if it happens.”

 _If_.

Not “when.”

“If” wasn’t good enough.

An idea struck him. If Bond didn’t make a home for himself, he’d never put down roots enough to want to make it to retirement. But he wouldn’t do it _for himself._..

“I’ll make you a bet.”

“Oh?” Bond’s sardonic eyebrow turned quizzical.

“The paintball match next week. If Q branch win, I’m taking you flat hunting. And I’ll _keep_ taking you flat hunting until you find somewhere.”

“And if the double-ohs win?”

“Well, then you can keep sofa hopping until your back gives out. Only then you’ll need to find somewhere with a real bed, anyway, won’t you?”

Bond threw his head back and laughed, cutting the tension of the last 5 minutes.

Q sighed in relief. 

-

James stifled a yawn behind his hand, looking out at the assembling crowd. Everyone had been kitted out with protective gear, but even beneath the sea of black helmets and bulletproof vests, it was clear who was on which team. And that was without the red and blue armbands. 

Alec nudged him in the ribs with a smirk.

“Do they really think there’s a chance we _won’t_ wipe the floor with them?” 

James huffed out a laugh.

“Well, they are exceedingly confident nerds,” he retorted. He opened his mouth to continue, only to feel his words dry up when he caught Q’s gaze from across the lawn. 

Q raised an eyebrow in clear challenge, then glanced meaningfully towards the old stone building.

So he knew, then.

The question was, how _much_ did he know?

“Confident or not, they don’t have the field skills. Especially not with our little _modifications._ ”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” murmured James, meeting Q’s gaze and raising an eyebrow of his own. He was reasonably sure his grin looked a lot more confident than he _felt._

“You think they know?” 

James turned away from Q to face Alec. He tilted his head in Q’s direction, watching the other agent come to the same realisation. 

“Oh.”

“I don’t think they know the details,” James conceded. “Q hasn’t even had his _phone_ out the entire time we’ve been here, and we checked for CCTV. But he definitely knows something is up. And he wants to win.”

“Yes, what did you say that bet was about, again?”

“I didn’t,” James hedged. “It was only something stupid, anyway. And like you said, Q branch don’t have the field skills to beat us.”

He knew if he told Alec, his friend would only laugh at him and tell him it was past time he found another flat. Hell, Alec had been telling him that for _weeks_ , now. And it wasn’t like James didn’t _know_ that, it just… seemed like a lot of effort, only to be alone again whenever he was off mission. It wasn’t like his current strategy was _ideal_ , but the company kept him distracted. 

“Right.” Alec was frowning, now. It was the same look he got when he came across a particularly difficult crossword clue. “Well, whatever it was, it can’t be as bad as Banstead.” 

The mention of 001 sent James’s eyes searching him out. The ginger bastard was leaning against the railing on the front steps, smirking triumphantly at R, who was glaring at him from Q’s side.

“What did the pillock do now?”

“Oh, he only bet R that he’d be the one to take her out, and that he’d be sure to shoot her on the arse when he did.”

“He did _what?"_

“Yup.”

Even for Banstead, that was… stupid. The prick had the self-preservation instincts of a particularly stupid pigeon at the best of times, but surely even he knew better than challenging R? She’d make sure someone shot him in the head at the first opportunity and than haul him off to a sexual harassment hearing at the first opportunity. And that was _if_ she didn’t conveniently forget to load her gun with paintball pellets instead of bullets. 

“So, he’ll be out within the first five minutes, then.”

The unmistakable shrill squeal of static cut through their conversation as Tanner turned on his megaphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!” 

The pair of agents shared a final grin before turning towards Tanner, where he and Moneypenny were standing by what appeared to be a fully-equipped surveillance van.

“Thank you. As you know, you have all been equipped with protective clothing. You are expected to wear this _at_ _all times_ until you are taken out by the other team.” He levelled a significant glance at the double-ohs, ignoring 001’s titter. “That _includes_ the protective glasses, 006.”

“Damn it, I hate these bloody things,” Alec muttered beside him, and put on the offending glasses.

“Both teams have been provided with co-ordinating armbands. Q branch, you’re in the blue. Double-oh agents you’re in the red. Do try not to shoot your own team, friendly fire is still grounds for disqualification. No matter who shoots you, if you are shot, even if it wouldn’t be a “fatal” shot, you’re out.” 

“Maybe we should save R the hassle and just shoot Banstead ourselves, then.”

“A few logistical points before we begin,” Tanner continued, heedless of Alec’s commentary. “Everyone has been given an earpiece. Both teams are linked to separate frequencies. You can only communicate with your team. Eve will be monitoring the agents, and I will be monitoring Q branch. Q branch, may I remind you that you have all agreed _not_ to hijack the other team’s frequency.” A significant glance at the boffins, this time. “If you are caught trying to do this, your team will forfeit the match and the double-ohs will win by default.”

James snorted. He could just imagine the fake wounded pride Q had put on when that rule had come up, when he’d no doubt been planning exactly that. He was a wily little bastard, James thought fondly. 

“The match will end when the final member of one team is eliminated. In the event that both teams are down to their final contestant, the last person standing wins. Q and 007, as head of Q branch and the most senior double-oh, I’m going to ask you to come forward.” James stood a little straighter. He hadn’t expected to be singled out. “Whichever team wins the coin toss gets a two minute head start through the main entrance. The team that loses the toss can’t enter the building until the two minutes are up, but can make use of any entrances, including the windows. Any questions?”

No one raised their hands. They’d had all of this information by email the day before, after all.

“Alright then. Bond, Q, please step forward.”

James obediently walked up to Tanner, nodding at Q as he did likewise. Tanner handed the megaphone over to Eve and pulled a two pence piece from his pocket. 

“Who’s calling it?” 

James and Q exchanged a glance. James knew that Q had sussed out _something_ about his team’s plans, but he had no idea how much. If Q branch got the head start, that could just give them the edge. But then, the double-ohs would be better at unexpected entrances.

“Q can call it,” he conceded, noting the distinct lack of surprise on Q’s face.

“Heads.” 

Tanner tossed the coin. James watched it fly into the air, tumbling back down into Tanner’s waiting palm. He pressed it onto the back of his other hand.

“Tails!”

James very carefully did not sag with relief. He and Q exchanged a nod, and turned back towards their respective teams.

Tanner retrieved the megaphone.

“Team double-oh wins the toss. Agents, please make your way to the front entrance.” 

James walked up to the door, feeling more than seeing his fellow agents fall into step behind him. 

“Agents ready. On your marks.”

James braced himself.

“Get set.”

He bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

“Go!”

Bond sauntered casually into the hall.

-

Q watched the agents go, smirking at their play of casual nonchalance. He was sure if _his_ team had gone in first and rushed straight in, they’d have had a few surprises there to greet them. 

Yes, he knew the agents had been up to something. They had _all_ been on site before any of Q branch had arrived. Before Tanner and Eve had arrived, even. And double-oh agents were never early without a very good reason. 

But he hadn’t been able to figure out what they’d done. In the interests of fairness, Q branch had agreed to deactivate the CCTV to Balcombe Hall the previous evening. Both teams had had plenty of time to research the layout and come up with a tentative plan, but they all knew that plans made in advance meant nothing when a double-oh was about. Let alone _all_ of the double-ohs. Still, at least they had come up with a plan for their entrance if they lost the toss. 

Q gave his team an encouraging grin, and waved them off to their designated positions.

Nothing to do for the next two minutes but wait.

-

Bond pushed open the heavy wooden door, glad now that they had decided not to lay a trap so close to the entrance. There was no way to know they wouldn’t have tripped it themselves. 

“We should ambush them,” hissed 001, who had clearly learned absolutely nothing about Q branch in his time as an agent.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied 005. “They aren’t stupid enough to all come in the same way. We’d be sitting ducks.” 

Bond sighed. _This_ was why making the double-ohs all work together was a bad idea. They worked alone. Oh, they occasionally had to team up with another field agent, occasionally even another of their own rank, but they weren’t team players. They barely even followed advice from their handlers, and they worked with _them_ every mission. 

“If we try to work together, we’ll just slow ourselves down,” he stated. “Only one person needs to stay standing. You all know where the traps are, just... Steer clear of them and try to take out as many blue armbands as you can. And if any of you shoot _me,_ I’ll come after you on the training mat. I hear a few of you think you want to learn from me.”

He heard more than saw 002’s gulp. 

-

“Remember, take out any reds you see. Don’t wait for a clear shot, it doesn’t need to be a fatal aim. If you can splatter their boots with blue paint, they’re out,” Q whispered, knowing his team would hear him through their earpieces.

“But if you happen to come across 001, feel free to take him out with a vengeance,” R murmured. 

“We know they’ve laid some traps, so watch your step. Be careful in doorways, and look out for trip hazards. Most of us will probably die-” Q rolled his eyes at the assorted sniggers in his ear. “But if you can take an agent down with you, all the better. They don’t think we have a chance. I think we can give them a stand up fight.” 

“Ok, Q branch,” came Tanner’s voice over the comms. “In 3… 2… 1… go!”

Q climbed in through the bay window. 

-

The next few minutes seemed to pass in a blur. Bond couldn’t say if they flew by or dragged, but it all seemed just a bit surreal. The patter of pellets hitting the walls echoed in the air and through his earpiece, enough that he couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from. No one spoke.

Then, a crash resounded through the hall. Something clanged down the stairs. 

“Fuck,” groaned 001.

Even without her on their comm line, Bond had no trouble hearing R’s “Ha!” from the bottom of the stairs. 

-

“Did you have to shout so loudly?” Q hissed into his comms from his hiding place behind a half-open door. “The whole bloody hall heard you.”

“It was worth it,” R replied. “No one else was around.”

There was a muffled ‘thwack’ through the line. 

“Oh, shit.” 

“Still worth it?” Q rolled his eyes.

“No regrets. I didn’t see who got me, but they’re on the second floor landing. Good luck.” 

A short beep indicated her line going dead.

-

“You could have let her have that one,” Alec murmured reproachfully in his ear. “He deserved it.”

Bond huffed, crawling as silently as he could out of view of the hallway. Shooting R from the landing had been a risk, but it was better than leaving her in play. Given the chance, he was pretty sure she’d delight in shooting the whole lot of them. 

“I got Sajid,” 002 announced. “He aimed for me but shot wide, so I’m still in play.” 

Bond did a mental tally. Each team had 9 participants, a few of Q branch having begged off to oversee the agents still on missions. The double-ohs were only down one so far, and they’d taken out two of Q branch. It was still wide open. 

“Good work, 002.” Bond ignored Alec’s snort in his ear at the praise. He was growing to like Johnson. At least _she_ respected him, unlike Alec.

“Someone’s coming,” she whispered. “If it’s one of you lot and you don’t want to get shot, speak now.”

Silence echoed across the line, interrupted after a few moments by the ‘thwack’ of more pellets hitting their mark.

-

Q snuck through the open doorway, carefully checking for agents. A flicker of movement behind a large cupboard caught his eye. He raised his gun.

“It’s me!” Hissed Brian, a moment before Q could shoot. 

Q loosened his trigger finger, but kept his gun ready. With his other hand, he gestured for silence. Brain nodded.

Q counted to 3 on his fingers, then slammed the door behind him as loudly as he could.

That should bring someone after them.

-

“What do we think? Trap?” 003 was breathless. He’d only just managed to get away from Brian and his laser sight. 005 had been caught in the crossfire. 

“Definitely,” Bond agreed. They were down to five agents, now. 002 and Curtis from R&D had taken each other out, and 009 had fallen prey to one of their team’s own tripwires, only to be shot by Q while he was down. 

Still, they had taken out Clarissa. Bond wouldn’t admit that Clarissa scared him, slightly. She was in charge of incendiaries, and she seemed to like her job a bit _too_ much. It was better that she was out of play before she could set fire to something. 

“Q went in there, though,” Alec whispered. “It might be worth the sacrifice if one of us can take him out.”

“Rather you than me,” hissed 004. She hadn’t taken any Q branches out, yet, but none had come her way. She always picked the best hiding spots. 

“I’m closest,” sighed 008. “I think Brian’s in there, too. If I can get both of them, it’s only 3 boffins left. Besides, my dodgy knee’s been playing up. If they get me, I can ice it.”

-

008 poked the blue splatter of paint on her shoulder. She walked over to Brian, face smeared with red paint, and held out a hand to help him up. 

Q waited a moment to check neither were injured, before ducking out of the room. 

“I’m out too, boss,” Fran’s voice echoed across the line. “004 went towards the kitchen.”

The line beeped again.

Right, they were down to just three. 

Jorge was holed up somewhere, but that didn’t really surprise Q. Jorge worked with poisons, guns weren’t really his thing. 

Noor had gone after 006, so Q knew it was only a matter of time before she was out, too. But if he could get to 006 in time…

Three left in Q branch. Four agents. 

It was going to be close.

-

Bond watched through the gap in the door as Alec mercilessly shot down poor Noor. 

She had been foolish going after him, but after Jorge had managed to get the drop on 004, all bets were off. 

“Damn it, I’m hit!”

“Who was it, 003?” 

Q branch was down to just Q and Jorge, now. And it seemed it was only him and Alec left standing for the double-ohs.

“I didn’t see, they hit me from behind. I think they went after-”

Bond saw a splash of blue paint bloom across Alec’s back. 

“Oh, fuck.”

Now, there was only Bond. And the two boffins between him and victory.

-

_Four days earlier:_

“No, 002, don’t follow him. We know where the weapons came from, we need to know where they’re going. Follow the other one.” 

Q heard the soft _whoosh_ of the sliding door behind him, but kept his eyes focused on the wall of monitors. The bottom left screen showed a map of downtown Singapore, with a flashing blue dot showing Johnson’s position. On the screens above, an array of CCTV feeds showed her casually strolling past a row of shops, for all the world seeming like any other tourist. The man who had just purchased several million pounds worth of long range weapons scurried ahead, unaware of his new tail. 

Q sensed a subtle change in the air as someone came up beside him. 

“Q,” Bond murmured, gently brushing his elbow.

“007,” Q greeted, glancing up at him for a brief moment. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes? R can see you if it’s urgent.”

“No rush.”

“Oh, is Bond there? Hi, Bond,” Johnson greeted cheerily through the speakers. 

“Attention on your mark, please, 002,” Q chided. “He’s turning left.”

“On it, Q.”

On the screen, her target paused to pull out his phone. Q zoomed in.

“I can’t get in close enough to read it, but it looks like he’s checking a map,” he informed her. The man put his phone back in his pocket and made a right turn. 

“He’s heading to the marina.”

Q turned his attention away from his screens. Bond was looking intently at the map.

“You’re sure?” He queried. 

“He’s not the person you originally followed to the meet-up, right?” Bond asked. Q nodded. “And he just pulled out his phone to check a map. The airport’s in the opposite direction, and I highly doubt he’s going to Universal Studios. He’s got a vessel moored somewhere. My guess is a yacht, it would blend in.”

“002, did you get that?”

“Marina, got it. Seriously, Bond, I don’t know how you do it.”

“What?” Bond spluttered. 

“I was stationed here for 6 months last year, and I wouldn’t have called that,” 002 blithely continued. “Teach me your ways, oh wise one.”

Q snorted at the deer-in-headlights expression on Bond’s face.

“I don’t know-”

“Yeah, yeah,” she laughed. “You probably don’t even have to think about it by now. No wonder you always manage to stay alive. You should write a handbook.”

“That’s not exactly-” Bond tried to argue, but Johnson cut in again.

“Well, maybe not a handbook. But seriously, your strategy tips could help us all. There’s a reason you’re the most senior double-oh, and it isn’t that you’re a better shot, you know. If you ever want to share, I know a few of us would be very grateful.”

A strange look passed over Bond’s face, one Q couldn’t quite place. A mix of confusion and pride, maybe? Q resolved to try to figure it out later, when he wasn’t trying to run a mission.

“Right, 002, when you get to the marina, we need you to see which vessel he boards. Do _not_ try to board it yourself, we don’t have clearance. But if we find which one it is, we can follow it digitally.”

On yet another screen, Q pulled up the harbour logs. He had an owner to find. 

-

“Sorry, Boss, I’m out. He’s on his way upstairs. Good luck.”

The line beeped one last time, and Q was alone with his thoughts. 

He’d had a feeling it would end this way. Just him and Bond. Why else would he have made that stupid bet?

Well, there was nothing for it. He had a good spot here, he might as well let Bond come to him. 

Q looked out at the front lawn, where agents and Q branchers splattered with paint were amiably milling around. From up here, they couldn’t see him. That was good. It wouldn’t do to have his underlings watch him get shot in the head by a double-oh. 

Yes, there was a chance he could beat Bond to the draw, but would he? 

Bond seemed pretty set on his sofa-hopping lifestyle, and Q was sure his pride wouldn’t let him lose a bet like that. Even a bet no one else knew about. 

Especially not a bet that would actually _improve_ his quality of life. 

Stubborn idiot.

A slight breeze brushed past him.

This was it.

Q turned, raising his gun.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Bond?”

Bond met his eyes, his own gun steady. 

“Don’t tempt me, Q.”

Q barely refrained from rolling his eyes. His favourite agent certainly did have a flair for the melodramatic. Q raised his own gun incrementally higher.

“Oh, come on,” he smirked. “Like _you’d_ shoot me.” 

_‘I dare you,’_ he wanted to say. _‘I dare you_ not _to shoot me. I dare you to take a leap of faith. You know you could be happy. Will you let yourself?_ ’ 

“Bastard,” Bond retorted with a grin, and Q almost thought he’d spoken that last bit aloud. 

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

In a last-ditch attempt to postpone the inevitable, he ducked to the left just as Bond pulled the trigger. He felt the paintball pellet whizz past his ear. 

It splattered against the wall behind him. 

That was unexpected. Q at his fastest couldn’t outmaneuver a double-oh on a _bad_ day. His eyebrows rose in incredulity.

“Is it my go now?”

Bond shrugged at him, grinning wider now. The bastard was enjoying himself. Typical Bond, getting a thrill from the chase.

Q pulled the trigger. 

Bond _hadn’t_ ducked. 

“Ow!” He raised a hand to his helmet. It came away covered in blue paint. “The _head,_ really? Fuck you, Q!” 

Red splattered over Q’s chest.

“What the hell, Bond?”

Bond roared with laughter.

Q might have considered being offended, if it wasn’t for that.

“Tit for tat, my dear Quartermaster.” 

“Oh, it’s _on._ ” 

And just like that, they were scrapping like children with water pistols. Bond dodged Q’s next shot, sending blue paint all over the door. Q let out an indignant splutter as Bond hit him on the backside. Yelling and laughing, they painted the room and each other in red and blue, stopping only when they ran out of pellets.

Q placed a hand on his belly, aching from laughter, and tried to get his breath back.

“Erm… Q?” Tanner’s tentative query reminded Q that he and Bond weren’t alone in the world. “Are you done?”

“Oh, don’t sound so put out, Moneypenny,” Bond was saying to the voice in his own earpiece. “You’re just mad that you don’t have CCTV in here today.” 

“Sorry, yes, we’re done,” Q responded breathlessly, still grinning at Bond, who was smiling back at him. 

He hadn’t had that much fun in _years._

“So, who won? It sounded like Bond shot first, but then you… kept going.” 

Q exchanged a glance with Bond, who nodded towards him with a small shrug. Technically, Q _had_ been the one to hit Bond first.

“I think,” he said, “that we’ll call it a draw.”

-

James opened his emails, grateful to have the shared office to himself for a minute. 

Aside from 001, who had been sent to Siberia on a “vital intelligence gathering mission” the day after the paintball match, his fellow double-ohs had taken great delight in ribbing him for not being able to take out one measly Q brancher. James, in response, had revelled in reminding _them_ that they had all been taken out by “measly Q branchers” long before he had. 

Even if neither team had officially won, the paintball match had given them all something to joke about. Alec had even told him over breakfast this morning that 008 had asked Brian in Q branch out to lunch. Apparently, shooting someone in the face with a paintball pellet was a bonding activity. Who knew?

But nice as the newfound chatter was, it was good to have a moment of peace and quiet. Maybe he would finally be able to finish the Baku report once and for all.

He scrolled disinterestedly through his unread emails; mostly office circulars, meeting requests someone would make sure he attended anyway, and reminders from Medical that his quarterly physical was coming up. He opened a new email, and started typing.

_From: 007_

_To: Q_

_Subject: The bet_

_Q..._

James paused. What should he even say? Technically, Q had won the bet, but _he_ had been the one to declare it a draw. So how did things stand now? As if Q was reading his mind, a new email came through.

_From: Q_

_To: 007_

_Subject: The bet_

_Bond,_

_I know we officially called it a draw, but I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a few flat viewings for you (details attached). The first two are tonight at 6._

_Meet me in Q branch at 5? We’ll take your car, the tube’s a pain in rush hour. Thai, after?_

_See you later,_

_Q_

Bond double clicked on the attachment with a fond smile. His shot _had_ gone wide. He wondered whether Q had figured it out.

Maybe settling down in London wouldn’t be too bad, after all.


End file.
